The Old Bridge...

I stand sturdy, across the river
Watching generations cross over
The old, the young, all shades of life
I observe, as they tread on my wooden self

On every face is etched a story different
Every step reveals the walker's thought
The few steps of their lives shared with me
Enrich my existence, they help me be

Phases of life is like water flowing under me
Sometimes calm and sometimes like the rough sea
Ever gushing, always rejuvenated by new and pure
Finding ways to bend across obstacles for sure

Centuries have passed, I stand proudly still
Testimony to all actions of human will
Waves of changes lapping against my mortar
Histories were created, I hold my corner

The good, the bad, I have seen them all
I have witnessed many a mighty fall
One day I will too, will just be a ruin
But I lived serving humanity, that is my boon

The Homeless of Piccadilly Gardens

His coat spread on the ground
His dog curled up at his feet
Guitar case open facing the crowd
The gentleman had his stage set

Strumming the guitar with a far off look
He delved into melodies that suddenly took
The listeners into his own world unknown
Painted pictures myriad as by only him seen

His sorrows, his pain, the love he lost
His rise, his fall and experiences that cost
A life that was once his, full to the brim
With joy and warmth and lived by a zesty him

His songs filled the gardens, all others mute
Time stood still and only the vibrating notes
Moved all present as one, a tale so familiar
Of things seen, heard and hoped for better

Here he was, alone but not lonely
His faithful dog, his only company
The Guitar case now filled with money
Amidst a crowd with feelings one too many

For his songs had touched every heart present
The melody brought forth by his sorrow inherent
Had awoken the compassion within every being
Sowing thought, being human is the only way of living

Rise again

Don't mistake me for I am still a proud Indian
Writing this has been a task so gargantuan
As Every little thing I cherish about my country
Has been brought to vile and left high and dry

The land of Chanakya, the great political genius
In political disarray, courtesy khadi clad hypocrites
Nalanda and Takshashila, the ancient temples of learning
Education today is a business, a venture in money-making

The land of riches, plundered repeatedly by foreign kings
We try in vain now to raise poverty line by inches
Six decades of independence, a gift of great sacrifices
The struggle continues, still for basic rights and amenities

In the age of supercomputers and space travel
In Religious fanaticism, casteism, superstition we grovel
For centuries we have bowed to our godesses by the dozen
And yet the birth of a girl is still not worth a celebration

Our culture, heritage and vast wealth of knowledge
Is mostly food for the power hungry in political pledge
We dare to dream, we achieve lofty goals, the youth of today
Have we that pride held so dear by old blood of yesterday

Do I stop and ponder if I can change some things?
Do I make an effort to bring about some difference?
No, not much I know, I am still clinging to misgivings
But get my hands dirty, I will, for it is a worthy penance.